What the other half watches

I took a tour around the Royal Opera House today, a beautiful building in Covent Garden into which I'd never ventured past the foyer before. It was refurbished several years back and the interior is really quite spectacular - every bit as rich and opulent as you might expect. Our guide, who appeared to enjoy having an audience tremendously, took great pains to point out details such as the 24 carat gold leaf that covers a vast portion of the interior and the Royal Box with a private entrance used by Prince Charles (and from which the view of the stage is apparently dreadful - the Queen prefers to sit in the circle).

It was slightly disconcerting to venture backstage, into the labyrinthine corridors of the theatre. The auditorium appeared large enough to me, but it's truly dwarfed by the rest of the building - the whole structure consists of 10 floors with some 800 people working there. A framed cross section on a wall showed how tiny the auditorium is in comparison with the rest of the building. To the side of the stage, for example, is an aircraft hanger sized area used to house sets for the various performances. The logistics here are fascinating, since it might be used to house sets for up to productions and a complex series of sliding platforms and lifts ensure that any of these can be readied on the stage in under four minutes.

As you might imagine, the lavishness of the surrounds fades the further backstage you journey, but it's strange to see how workman-like everything becomes. The corridors and offices you encounter appear like those in any office building in the country, filled with mundane features such a staff noticeboards and a canteen (though enlivened by the addition of numerous paper signs in Russian blue-tacked around to help guide the visiting Bolshoi company around).

Before the tour ended we were fortunate enough to be able to watch a rehearsal in progress. Two young Russians were enacting Mercutio's death from Romeo and Juliet, as an older man stood by, occasionally barking orders in a thick Russian accent. I thought for a moment that we were standing on the other side of a one way mirror, until I looked across at a mirrored surface opposite and realised we were wholly visible to the dancers. I supposed they must used to people starting at them, but rehearsing seems like such a private, almost intimate, act that I felt quite voyeuristic to be watching them there. They seemed terribly young to mine eyes, and, though I doubt I could easily distinguish excellence from mediocrity, they seemed quite distinquished to me.

It was a good afternoon.